Taken during light snow fall at midnight.
The blizzard began, cherry blossom from a flame sky. The road home
vanished. Pink ice floes shape-shifted in the river, bumping
and grinding like clubbed seals. We tended the fire
and played strip poker. In bed you wore lipstick and a balaclava.
On the third day we tracked through the crystal forest. The valley
was a fandango of silence. I clawed at it with my bare hands.
You held your phone up high, immobile as the Statue of Liberty.
We returned to the cabin and played Scrabble with four letter words.
The windows became peepholes. I saw no footprints in the virgin drift,
only the farmer’s wife floating silver between the tree tops.
She was wearing a wolf jacket, her face upturned to the falling snow.
That night you thought you heard singing in the wind.
On your last day, you stopped speaking, stayed in bed, a tender huddle
of bones. I roasted meat on the log fire and drank Jack Daniels. I recited
the tale of our first New Year’s Eve, kissing in Times Square
while rockets fell. I could still remember the neon taste of your flesh.
Beauty lies frozen
soft at my closed opening
feathers upturn sky
Such a sad morning to find this poor, wee robin by my door. Much as I understand death is inevitable for all creatures, I sometimes find it hard to take. The image of this bird has haunted me all day.
I woke to snow this morning and a strong sense of silence and isolation. The snow muffled the sounds of traffic from the village and I felt like I was on another planet. Looking out into the pristine garden I recalled my childhood excitement at each snowfall. I opened the bedroom window and gathered a hand full of white from the sill. The cold made me feel more alive. Years ago I had a collie-cross dog called Floss who loved the snow, ploughing through it with his head down snuffling and snorting, rolling around in a frenzy. He would return home eventually with tiny snow balls dangling from his long hair, thawing out all over the house and leaving puddles in his wake. Cats are far more sensible. Nadia went out warily, making staccato steps as the snow stung her soft pads. She left a delicate solo track across the decking where my green Buddha looked on serenely.
“I do not dispute with the world; rather it is the world that disputes with me.”